Once my power is unleashed, your words will be broadcast, whatever they may be. We are all in your hands. Go to it, demon.'
Grimm drew a deep breath. 'Friends, block your ears,' he advised 'This is going to be loud!'
The human members of the group complied with Grimm's exhortation, plugging their ears as best they could. Thribble seemed little concerned.
Grimm's Sight showed him that the ward was wavering and faltering. Little time remained; the senior mage was ashen and could surely prevail little longer against the brutal onslaught of the Crarians. Looking downwards, he saw Thribble's nod and unleashed energy from his inmost being, trusting to the demon to see reason. Words were unnecessary, as the power was unleashed from Grimm's inner being like water from a broken dam.
A voice, indistinguishable from that of Starmor, boomed from the demon, impossibly, agonisingly loud:
'Crarians! You are now free from my earlier edicts. You are free to fulfil your lives as you will!'
Grimm held the power on, feeling his strength waning at an alarming rate, but he dared not hold back. The adventurers were protected from most of the sound, since it was being driven outward from the centre of the ward, but the volume was still phenomenal. The torrent of naked power seemed to scorch the Questor's very soul, and he moaned in torment, feeling like a candle in the heart of a blacksmith's forge.
The Crarians flinched and staggered as Grimm's energy hit them, sinking deep into their very bones, but they did not stop.
'Your lives are your own,' Starmor's voice roared. 'Rejoice in the joy of freedom and your own wills. You are free!'
The Crarians halted, confused, and Dalquist croaked 'Another assault and I'm done, friends. Let's hope the spell was successful.'
The Crarians had been driven back by the sheer power of the sonic blast. They stood, stunned, for a few seconds more, until Dalquist sank to the ground, utterly spent, as the ward failed at last.
Grimm continued to hammer Thribble's message into the attackers' ears and minds for a few seconds longer and then, with a helpless gesture, he dropped to his knees, gasping and holding his hands to his pounding temples.
The would-be assailants regrouped as if to launch their final assault. Harvel and Crest stood firm, ready to give their all, but the Crarians stopped in their approach, their jaws slack and their brows furrowed.
Weapons began to fall from the townspeople's nerveless hands, first with isolated, metallic tinkles and then in an ever-increasing clatter. The befuddled Crarians looked around, confused and uncomprehending. Some pressed their palms to their ears, and Grimm guessed that the battering voice had robbed them of their hearing.
He levered himself to unsteady feet with the aid of Redeemer, shaking with the effort to remain conscious.
'People of Crar!' he husked, feeling as if his throat were filled with sharp shards of flint. 'The evil Starmor is no more. Pursue your lives as you will: seek the fulfilment of your dreams and desires. Your lives, so long subject to the will of the odious Starmor, are your own once more, and yours alone. Live!'
Grimm gasped once more and slumped to the ground, prone and unmoving.
Many of the Crarians stared with blank eyes, perhaps still deaf, but others showed the beginnings of comprehension and wonderment at being freed from Starmor's influence. Some hugged and kissed their neighbours while tears rolled down their cheeks. Some dared timorously to approach Dalquist, Crest and Harvel with open arms, according them the same treatment. They took care to avoid the titanic Shakkar, who growled as they approached.
Dalquist waved them away as best he could and, concerned, he knelt to examine Grimm. The young Questor was ashen, breathing in swift, shallow pants, and he seemed close to death, and the tall mage bit his lip, feeling cold uncertainty sinking into his bones. Grimm had expended his entire store of energy in one mighty explosion of will, and Dalquist feared his young friend had overextended himself. He shook the fallen youth by the shoulders and shouted in his ear, in a vain attempt to recall him to consciousness.
The once-murderous throng began to disperse; some singing and some weeping openly. Only a few remained, and one man, dressed in the soiled rags of what had once been costly attire, approached Dalquist, and the mage looked up from his fallen companion.
'Lord Mage,' the old man said in a hesitant voice, 'we are all in your debt, beyond what words can express. My name is Querl, and I was once the city's chief physician. Your friend seems in urgent need of medical attention, and I offer my services in humility. I have a few small sleights of magic, which help me in the pursuance of my duties. May I attend the young magic-user?'
Dalquist, feeling the direst concern at Grimm's condition, waved Querl towards his unmoving companion. The physician knelt, took Grimm's pulse and held a small mirror under the Questor's nose. He made a few passes over Grimm's brow, muttering a few terse phrases of gibberish.
'Well, Healer,' Dalquist said, his voice tense, 'how is Questor Grimm? Will he live?'
Looking up from his charge, Querl shrugged.
'His soul has retreated to another place,' he asserted. 'His body functions only at a low level, but I am reasonably confident that, with care, it will live.
'Nonetheless, I have no idea if his wandering soul will ever find its way back home. He needs warmth, sustenance and constant attention. He is on a long and difficult journey from which many never return. The next forty-eight hours are critical, and we must find him a warm and comfortable resting place.'
Chapter 10: Deliverance
The soul of what had once been Grimm Afelnor floated in endless darkness, aimless and free; a small spark drifting through an indistinct haze of barely-registered sensory impressions. It had no thoughts, no sense of self and no emotions; this was a vague, formless mote of consciousness in an ocean of nothingness. For seeming aeons, it swam contented through the warm, soupy sea of oblivion, growing weaker with every moment.
A sound! A distant humming seemed to grow louder and more distinct by the second. The noise reached an unbearable peak, assaulting its very centre, before consciousness came to spirit-Grimm. In a microsecond, it felt itself falling, falling until the spark fell to earth with a heavy thump. Spirit-Grimm had regained mortality: mortality was a sea of cares and pain.
Grimm's head and eyes seemed filled with ice-cold shards of glass, his throat with knives. The awareness of the existence of arms and legs wormed its way into his growing consciousness; large, heavy structures with myriad tunnels inhabited by small, scurrying, biting creatures. He was a living termite's nest, a rabbit warren. A strange, bubbling, keening sound echoed in the distance, and another sound. It was his name. He was aware of the presence of another, and he wanted to be alone.
So much easier just to be no more.
The presence persisted, irking him, He tried to open his eyes, but the effort was too great. He became aware that the distant cry came, unbidden, from his own mouth and then ceased.
'Grimm, come back. Grimm, come back…'
He tried to speak but all that came from his lips was a weak, unintelligible, gurgling sound.
'Grimm, I am Querl. Please speak if you can.'
'Que-errr-lll…' The sound was faint but comprehensible. 'Querl. H-hurts. Grimm. Grimm Af'ln'r'
'Good, Grimm! Do you know where you are?'
'D'know. Crar. Hurts.'
'Yes, you are in Crar. I will give you something to ease the pain.'
'No, not drugs. None. None. None. No drugs!'
'Very well, Grimm. If you are determined in this, I will administer no drugs, but you may ask me at any time if you change your mind.'
'Won' change mind. No drugs…' The lights faded again.
